


Past your dream time

by kerithwyn



Category: Fringe
Genre: Brown Betty AU, F/F
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-10-24
Updated: 2015-10-24
Packaged: 2018-04-20 05:53:10
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,558
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/4776065
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/kerithwyn/pseuds/kerithwyn
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Astrid finds herself in someone else’s story.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Past your dream time

**Author's Note:**

  * For [lastwingedthing](https://archiveofourown.org/users/lastwingedthing/gifts).



> Written for FemslashEx 2015 for lastwingedthing. Thanks to Sprocket for beta!

Astrid walked through the FBI building and opened the door to Olivia’s office—

This wasn’t Olivia’s office. Astrid took a step back and blinked at the name stenciled on the door: “O. Dunham,” followed by “Private Investigations.”

She glanced behind her to see that the FBI office she’d walked through had transformed, seemingly between one step and the next, into a somewhat rundown tenement building. Other doorways stood closed along the long corridor behind her, nothing like the gleaming open space she’d passed on the way here.

Astrid closed her eyes and took a long shuddering breath. Maybe she’d touched one of Walter’s chemical mixtures by mistake and she was hallucinating. Maybe this was a temporary delusion brought on by exposure to too much Fringe weirdness. When she reopened her eyes, she’d see—

Exactly the same thing. A plain door, yellow glass window, impossible signage. Especially impossible because Astrid recognized the sign from a story Walter told to Ella a few days ago. Olivia’s niece had been entranced; Astrid had been alternately amused and irritated that even in an imaginary story, Walter refused to get her name right.

Maybe she was lucid dreaming. Maybe she was in the sensory deprivation tank. Maybe Walter had slipped some of his hallucinogens into her iced mocha.

Astrid looked down at herself with a start, realizing that her sweater and pants had been replaced by a tailored jacket and skirt. She was wearing heels instead of her work shoes, and when she reached up cautiously to touch her head, Astrid discovered that her hair was straightened and gathered into a neat bun.

She didn’t feel foggy or dry-mouthed, or have any particular sense of being drugged. She wasn’t disoriented like Olivia had described after her jaunts to the alternate universe. The lack of those factors wasn’t a definite indicator, but possibly a clue.

“In or out!” a voice called, and Astrid instinctively stepped inside and closed the door behind her.

Olivia Dunham sat behind a desk, a very different Olivia. The whiskey bottle was familiar, but Olivia didn’t indulge at work. This Olivia’s hair was elaborately curled, her fedora sat rakishly on her head, and her lipstick was very, very red.

Detective O. Dunham smiled at her, welcoming but perhaps a touch surprised. “What’s up, doll?”

Astrid would have laid bets that Olivia never called anyone “doll” in her life. The Olivia she knew, anyway.

But she knew who this one was. And she knew who she was. “I’m not— I’m not Esther Figglesworth,” she blurted, still wrestling with the idea that she was in Walter’s _story_ , for God’s sake.

“No?” Olivia’s— Dunham’s— red, red mouth widened into an amused smile as she leaned back in her chair, hands behind her head. “Who are you, then? Some helpless dame wandered into my office in need of a helping...hand?”

The insinuation was obvious, coupled with Dunham’s leer. Astrid stared at her in shock. Her Olivia had never....

But comparisons were pointless. This version of Olivia Dunham obviously had her own ideas, and Astrid needed to make it very clear this situation wasn’t Esther’s idea of kinky roleplay. “I know I look just like her. But my name is Astrid Farnsworth, and I don’t belong in this universe.”

Dunham abandoned her slouch for a more alert posture. She didn’t go for her gun, but Astrid knew it had to be close at hand. “Start talking.”

The idea of alternate universes, thankfully, wasn’t completely foreign to Detective Dunham. Her eyes were still narrowed, but she looked thoughtful by the time Astrid finished telling her what little she knew, and what she guessed. “So I’m a version of your boss from a story that a crazy scientist told a little girl?”

“That’s the gist,” Astrid agreed. “Olivia’s my colleague, not my boss per se, but close enough.”

Dunham nodded agreeably at the correction. “Okay. So where’s Esther?”

“If I’m right, we’ve switched places and she’s with my team. They’ll take good care of her.” If she was dreaming it didn’t matter, but if she’d somehow swapped consciousness with a fictional version of herself, Astrid trusted her team to keep her body safe until she returned.

The detective nodded and stood. “You want to go by Dr. Bishop’s lab, see if he can figure this out?”

It felt like the worst possible idea. Never mind what kind of experiment this version of Walter might want to subject her to; Astrid felt, instinctively, that leaving this office would break the soap-bubble reality she now stood in. And if it broke prematurely, where would she find herself? “This happened out of the blue. Maybe it’ll reverse just as unexpectedly.”

Dunham smiled broadly. “Sure, I wouldn’t want Bishop poking at me either.”

Astrid laughed and suddenly, she didn’t feel quite so out of place. She eyed the detective curiously. “You don’t seem bothered that as far as I’m concerned, you’re a figment in a story.”

Dunham shrugged, seeming utterly at ease. “Everyone’s in a story. I’m living mine. I like it—can’t imagine myself as an FBI agent.”

“It seemed...” Astrid hesitated. “In the story, it sounded like you and Peter Bishop were getting together.” Wish fulfillment on Walter’s part, to find his missing son, to create a family.

Dunham shrugged again. “Pete? We had a few laughs. He took me dancing, but it wasn’t his thing.” Dunham leaned forward conspiratorially. “I really like dancing with the right partner.”

Again, there was no mistaking that flirtatious tone. “You dance with Esther?”

“Sometimes. When we’re both in the mood.” Dunham tilted her head and offered, “You seem like you could cut a rug.”

Astrid smiled. “Like Esther said in the story: What makes you think I’m gonna drop everything just because you call?”

Dunham smirked. “And like I said... Because that’s just the kind of girl you are.”

She wasn’t Esther, Astrid wanted to protest. But yes, she did like dancing. And “dancing.” That was, irrefutably, the kind of girl she was.

“What would Esther say about you swapping partners?” Astrid asked softly, as a means of stalling more than anything.

“She doesn’t mind about Peter. I don’t mind about her boyfriends. We both like to switch things up.” Dunham’s smile was wider now, more sure of her anticipated conquest. She reached into her desk drawer and pulled out two shot glasses, filling them to the brim. “Drink to pass the time? Wouldn’t want you to think this reality was inhospitable.”

 _Boyfriends?_ Astrid wondered, but it didn’t seem her business to ask. “It’s been very welcoming so far,” she said, and threw back the shot. Because either she was really in a story or she was dreaming, and either way a drink was in order given the tropes involved.

Dunham raised an approving eyebrow. “ _Skoal_!” She drained her own glass, licking at her lips like a cat. “So, Miss Farnsworth. Shall we dance?”

So, so tempting. Astrid thought about the stressful year she’d had and the escalation of fringe events. About the many nights she’d wished for someone to hold her against the horrors she’d seen, and about the few nights she’d taken a lover and found what solace she could. About her admiration for Olivia that she’d never allowed to blossom into a crush; there’d been no point.

But this Olivia was either more flexible or more willing to act on her impulses. And Astrid was here, for a given value of _here_ , even if this was a dream or an imaginary story. The detective would vanish or Astrid would return to her own universe, and either way, Astrid would have a memory to cherish. And when you found yourself in a fantasy, it only seemed fair to play along.

Besides, together they were the hardboiled detective and the mysterious woman: a liaison was virtually required by the genre.

Astrid smiled at her host. “I could do with some dancing.”

Detective Dunham went over to a battered record player, chose a disc, and dropped the needle. As a scratchy recording began to play, Olivia held out her hand and Astrid took it. She grinned at the vintage song and sang along with the first lines,

 _Linger in my arms_  
_A little longer, baby_  
_Hold me tight_

The detective swept her expertly across the small space. “I’m betting,” Dunham said softly, “you don’t dance with your ‘colleague.’”

Astrid laughed. “No. Even if she was interested, it wouldn’t be...” _Appropriate_ , she could say. Or, equally, _possible_ or even _wise_. Olivia was a lot of things, but not “safe” for any given definition of the word. And Astrid needed stability in her personal life to counter the bizarre nature of her work. “...a good idea,” she finished weakly.

This wasn’t a good idea either by any measure, but Astrid wasn’t in her own reality and Dunham’s sly red smile was simply too tempting. She reached up to slip her hand into Dunham’s curls, tugging gently to draw her head down.

Dunham tasted like whiskey and intrigue, and between her perfume and the faint whiff of secondhand cigarette smoke she didn’t smell anything like Olivia. “I like to lead,” she whispered against Astrid’s lips, “but you’re the guest here. Lady’s choice.”

Astrid smiled. “Let’s see where the music takes us.”

Together, they made goodness. Ella had been right about that part, after all.


End file.
